What Dreaming Foretold
by Lialle
Summary: Sequel to "What Silence Brought": Donut tries to fix his mistakes, but Grif decides to take charge.
1. Part I

They had made a mess in the bathroom. The fact that it was Donut and Griff making the mess, together, caused Sarge to seriously question whether or not he was dreaming. So instead of yelling, the man shook his head and went off in search of coffee; strong, bitter coffee to wake himself up. When he returned, the two men were cleaning the bandages, bloody clothes and splotches of blood together. Together. Grif was not lounging as he watched Donut clean, and Donut was not complaining about being treated like a maid.

"Something the matter, Sarge?" Simmons questioned from down the hallway as he noticed the man he looked up to standing confused before the bathroom. Sarge didn't react or respond, instead shook his head, closed his mouth and walked away. Simmons frowned, walking closer and peering inside the bathroom at the scene that occupied his CO's attention. Something flared in his chest as he gazed upon the scene before him. He twitched, hands clenching, before stalking away.

Donut smiled, throwing his dirty paper towel in the bin. He turned to Grif, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He shifted closer to the other man, who was awkwardly wiping a few small drops of blood off the ground.

"Didn't realise I was bleedin' so much..." He muttered, frowning before throwing his own paper towel in the bin. He turned to Donut, giving him a hesitant, unsure twitch of his lips. "Thanks for cleaning up my hand."

"I suggest not using it for a while. You did some pretty bad shit to it and... I couldn't cast it, obviously. So be careful." Donut paused, giving Grif a critical look. "But knowing you, you're bound to do something reckless..." He muttered, shaking his head before standing and holding out his hand to help Grif up. The other man held out his injured hand, but Donut shook his head and bent down to grab the other. "See what I mean? Just be careful, alright?" He tugged him up, and soon they were leaving the bathroom, carefree. At least Grif wasn't crying anymore.

"Donut? Thanks again." Donut nodded, giving him a small smile.

"Grif? Maybe... maybe I might have another plan..." The orange soldier gave him a steady, unsure gaze. He shook his head, backing down the hallway towards his room.

"No... no I think I'm cool, Donut. The last plan of yours ended with me waking up with cyborg limbs in a curiously perfect dream world, only for it to end in disaster and for me to return knowing what it would be like if life was perfect. And then realising the real world doesn't work that way. And then... well, punching a concrete wall, discovering love hurts, and—hey, how the fuck did you do all that... funny dream transporting stuff, anyway?" Grif pointed a finger at Donut's chest—on his non-injured hand, thankfully—and gave him a highly suspicious look.

"Well... erm... I'll tell you if you listen to my plan, okay?! Good, let's go to my room!" Grif sighed, shaking his head and walking after the pink soldier, hesitating at the threshold of his room. He peered in hesitantly, taking in the... strangely... nice room. Huh. He shook his head, stepping in. "Close the door behind you?" Grif complied, choking on air as he gazed upon a large selection of photographs—a lot of them appeared to be inconspicuously taken here, at Blood Gulch. He turned around to Donut.

"You're a photographer?" The other man nodded, gazing with fond eyes upon the myriad of pictures. Grif let out a 'huh', turning back to the photos and peering closely at them. They weren't the same as the one in his "dream Gulch", but they were just as reflective of this home, as those were. "Could I keep this one?" He pointed at a photo of him and Simmons. It showed Grif grinning wide, Simmons rolling his eyes at the end of what was perhaps one of the orange soldier's stupid jokes. Donut nodded, smiling softly.

"Finished trying to delay the inevitable? Take a seat." Grif sighed, peeling the photo off the back of the door, putting it in his pocket and took a seat. He stared at Donut for a moment, as the other man paced before him.

"Well, I happen to know for a fact that Simmons doesn't hate you, nor does he wish you dead. Ahah, don't interrupt Grif. I just want to give you a helpful nudge in the right direction, okay? Well, maybe you should... try and... seduce him!" Grif gave Donut a blank stare. "Or not. That's cool, too. Hm... Well, maybe—"

"Donut, shut up. Seriously. You'd think you, of all people, would know that things don't work that way. There is no hopeless romance in this. It isn't a fucking fairytale." Grif sighed, standing up and heading for the door. "In these kind of situations, it's probably just best to fish. And besides, Donut, I think I know a perfect way. I'll do this on my own."


	2. Part II

Grif tapped his fingers incessantly against the table in the kitchen. He was staring openly at Simmons' back, who was making a coffee for himself. He knew he wasn't hiding himself well, but at the moment that was the least of his worries. After all, he was still trying to decide the best possible course of action about, well, coming out of the closet so to speak. Sure, Donut knew. Hell, he was almost positive the other soldier was gay as well. But there was still the problem of Sarge and, well, Simmons. The man of his hidden affections, affections that Donut helped bring forth and made impossible to forget. Or ignore.

So Grif sat, tapped, and thought. Thinking wasn't his strong suit, and after this he was definitely going to be taking a long rest. He just hoped it would all work out and he'd be resting with Simmons. He sighed- probably for the fifth or so time—and Simmons turned around with a frustrated look in his eyes.

"Grif, if you're still pissy about before, when I, well, insulted you, can you just get over it? It's not as if it hasn't happened before, so why was then any different? You being grumpy really annoys the fuck out of me. You sigh too much and your breathing is frustrating." Simmons sat down at the table, holding his steaming mug between his hands and staring across it at Grif. They stared each other down, Grif not completely willing to respond, and Simmons not willing to repeat his sentiments. The maroon soldier fought back a flush as he realised his words were a little harsher than necessary.

"Of course Simmons." Silence dominated the kitchen while the two men continued doing what they were doing. Grif continued to stare, and Simmons attempted to calmly drink his coffee. He was becoming unnerved by the orange soldier.

"Grif... is there anything you want to talk about?" Grif continued to stare, letting some hardness leak into his eyes at Simmons question.

"Simmons, you do realise nothing you have every said or done has given me the illusion of you being willing to listen to me—and keep what I say a secret? What makes you think I'd want to tell you anything? That I'd trust you?" Simmons couldn't stop the flush that crept up his neck at this. He diverted his eyes, but he could still feel Grif's on him, penetrating him to the core. The other man was right, of course, but he also realised that it went both ways. He would never feel comfortable telling Grif anything, if their relationship continued like it had for the past few years.

"That lack of trust goes both ways, you know." Simmons managed after a few moments. Grif flinched and it was only a movement that the other man noticed due to the time they had spent together—spent together on the verge of friendship, a threshold neither had appeared to be fully capable or willing to cross. Slowly, Grif nodded.

"Well, I suppose one of us has to take the dive then? I'll—"

"I'll go first." Grif flinched, but only in surprise. This—this felt oddly familiar.

"_Grif—"_

"_I think I should start."_

It was like, like when he had interrupted Simmons, back... back in the Dream-Gulch. He paled, staring at Simmons with hesitancy. Slowly, he nodded, pressing his lips together to stop himself blurting out some home truths about himself—just to stop a conversation he felt was coming, a conversation he felt he... he didn't want to hear.

"Grif... I'm sorry I have been treating you less than fairly... but I'm not sorry when my harsh words were retaliation. You fucking deserved it those times, but I realise that, well, I didn't exactly help matters... And I'm sorry for always being on Sarge's side of things. I just—well, it's hard to explain..." Grif smiled softly. Well, this certainly wasn't what he thought he was going to hear, but the pleasant surprise was much better than anything he had hoped. He gave Simmons silent encouragement to continue.

"I—Grif, I... er... well, you see—I have, some, um—these, well, they're like... Ihavesome, well, feelingsforyou." Grif stared for a moment, trying to decipher the garble that had fallen from the lips of his maroon teammate. "And you see, those are kind of, sort of, well, most definitely the reason for why I haven't exactly... been open with you. They're sort of... intimidating. And you're pretty intimidating as well, you know. So, yes, I'm afraid—"

"Simmons. Wait a second. Did you just...?"

"I—I'm afraid I think I just did." Simmons shifted awkwardly in his seat, avoiding Grif's charged gaze. The other man sat on the edge of his chair, his heart thumping wildly.

"Well, Simmons, I'm afraid I return those sentiments." Silence reigned for a few, heart-pounding moments while both soldiers sat staring each other. Simmons slowly leaned forward, over his long forgotten, now cold mug of coffee.

"You better not be pulling one of your pranks."

"Actually... I'm not. And, well, that's what I've been sighing and grumbling over. I mean, I've been thinking about how to tell you, but you kinda beat me to the punch and—"

"But Grif, you never really told me." Simmons smiled, a self-satisfactory, tingling to the deepest parts of Grif's hearts kind of smile. Grif tittered for a moment before his blush overwhelmed him.

"Yes, well, you didn't confess very well either. I mean, what the fuck was that jumbled mess that spilled from your mouth? I could have interpreted that anyway!"

"Thankfully, you didn't." Simmons let his smile soften to match his eyes. Grif tried to copy the beauty of the image.

"Yeh, I suppose that's a good thing, right? Well, Simmons... I have feelings for you too." It came out slightly sarcastic, but it had a grin bursting out on the maroon soldier's face, and a satisfactory twitch of the lips on Grif. Simmons shook his head, standing up and pouring his coffee down the sink. He went to leave the kitchen, but turned back to Grif at the last moment, casting him a questioning gaze.

"You coming?"

"You bet I am." Grif stood up quickly, grinning. "Simmons, I have a story to tell you."

"Oh yeh? What's it about? Actually, do I want to know?" Simmons cast Grif a look of hesitancy—a look so easily described as jesting and joking.

"Maybe. It includes Cyborgs, philosophical know-it-alls, angsty time-travellers and conflicted lovers. Piqued your interest?"

"... I still find it kind of creepy that you know words like "piqued" and "sentiments"... but I suppose... your story sounds a little interesting."

"Oh, it is. Trust me. I wouldn't be here right now, with you, if it wasn't for this story."


End file.
